


a thin skirt of desire skims the earth

by scandalous



Series: Season of Kink 2019 [25]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Bottom Greg House, Dom James Wilson (House M.D.), Kitchen Sex, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy Kink, Service Kink, Sub Greg House, Top James Wilson, Trans Greg House, Vaginal Sex, light genderplay, misgendering as a kink, post-Mayfield, this is far too self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 08:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalous/pseuds/scandalous
Summary: House is anxious when he's not working, so Wilson has a solution for him.





	a thin skirt of desire skims the earth

**Author's Note:**

> note: i'm a trans man and i kink on all the things i put in the page. i can't believe _this_ is my first piece of trans!house porn. is it realistic to him? no. but who cares!! 
> 
> for seasonofkink with the square 'servitude' and hc-bingo with the square 'loss of job/income'.
> 
> enjoy!

Wilson knows just how much House hates being jobless. His license being taken away, the fact he's not at the hospital finding the answer to a medical puzzle — it all makes him beyond anxious. He has things to distract himself with, namely Wilson and cooking. Which had made him have an idea. 

"House," he starts, wrapping his arms around his middle, pressing a kiss to his ear. "I had a job idea for you."

"What d'you mean?" House asks, already seeming peeved. "I'm just waiting to get my goddamn license back. I'll be out of your sofa soon enough."

"You don't need to get out my place, House," he says, pressing another kiss, this time lower, to his throat. "I thought that, with your fixation with cooking, you'd be able to kink on it."

House blinks once, twice, like he's not catching what he means. "What, do you want me to get chocolate on you and then lick it off? 'Cause I don't quite see how that's a job—"

"I want you to be my housewife," Wilson interrupts him, a hand on the hip of his bad leg, almost as leverage in case he collapses. House looks close to it, with how a pink hue overtakes his face, a sound forcing its way out of his throat, his eyes wide. He smiles at him. "I think you enjoy the idea."

"Perhaps I do," House mutters. "So, are you gonna get off on our pretend-married life, me being in a typically feminine role, the fact I'm cooking good, or all of the above?"

"Primarily the last two." He squeezes his hip. "I might bend you over the counter, if that's okay."

"That's okay," House nods. He stays silent for several seconds, shifting his weight, almost trying to ignore Wilson's hardness right against him. "Should I be cleaning, too?" he drawls, trying to sound sarcastic (he fails). 

"Ah, you already do the laundry, and I don't want you hurting your leg," he says kindly, pressing a kiss to his jaw, beard tickling him. "So I think we should be good. I hope it helps you distract yourself from, well, everything."

House rolls his eyes. "I'm just impatient, Wilson."

He pulls his hand up to squeeze his side gently, caring and careful as always. "No, you need to get your mind busy. So I guess I should just make your hands busy."

"With cooking or with your dick?" he drawls, raising a brow. 

He laughs. "Both, preferably."

***

House would not admit this, but Wilson's proposition works wonders. 

He busies himself trying different cooking methods, styles, going from typical foods he's eaten to exotic dishes from the other side of the world. He does have a talent for it; it takes him away both from the stress of being jobless and the pain in his leg. The apron he wears only makes it easier to be into it, to get into that mood of wanting to  _ serve _ .

"I'm home," Wilson calls out as he opens the door. 

House doesn't reply. He's too busy making a dish with lobster, putting it away for the time being. 

"Honey," Wilson says, stepping into to the kitchen. “What’re you cooking?”

“Lobster and shrimp risotto,” he says, looking at him and not doing much of anything, leaning in to wash his hands off in the sink. “I was, uh, about to get the shrimp. I also cleaned some of the bathroom and did the laundry.”

Wilson hums and grabs House’s arm. “I see.” He pauses and looks at him. “Color?”

He’s already getting wet from the anticipation. “Green.” 

“Get undressed,” he snarls at him, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Only leave your apron on. I think my housewife deserves a little reward for being so good while I’m away.”

House obeys, a pile of clothes around him as he puts his apron back on. It teases at his engorged t-dick, at his nearly invisible top surgery scars, makes him want more from Wilson.

He doesn’t take his time, though, doesn’t tease him. It’s only a blink away before he’s pushed onto the counter and bent over it.

“Spread your legs,” Wilson orders, tone ice cold.

He obeys, spreading his legs and clinging onto the counter, biting the inside of his cheek.

Wilson clicks his tongue. “So desperate for your husband. You’re wet already.”

He whimpers out, face burning a little. “James—” he starts.

“Did you miss me, honey?” he interrupts him. He hears the tell-tale sound of him unbuckling his belt, pants dropping to the floor. He sucks in a breath. “Answer me, dear. I don’t like to repeat myself.”

He lets out a little undignified noise, shame and arousal overwhelming him. “I missed you, James,” he breathes out.

“And why is that?” he asks. He gasps when his cock presses right against his entrance, teasing, almost pushing in, almost starting to wreck him without any care in the world. The cloth of his apron is still pressing right against his dick. 

“Because…” God, this really is better than therapy. He’s so lost in his arousal, on the fact they’re kind of pretending they’re married, on the fact he’s Wilson’s housewife, that it melts all his anxieties and all his pain away. “Because I’m your dutiful wife,” he starts, the word wife making him weak at the knees (God, he knows Wilson will be annoyingly supportive of his identity once they’re shifting into aftercare). “Because I want you and I-I know you wanted me while you were away.”

“Good,” Wilson says. Just good, as he sinks right into him, a guttural groan leaving him. A masculine grunt quickly follows as he starts fucking into him, making him moan out as he relaxes on the counter. “You’re such a good housewife. Always eager to please, no? And you do such a good job at it, too. You know exactly what I want from you.”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his mind hazy with want. “Yes, I-I always know, I’ll always give it to you.”

“Would you, really, love?” Wilson says as he fucks into him, hard and fast, without any care for his pleasure, hips against the backs of House’s thighs as he leans over towards him, pressing his weight onto his own, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Yes!” he breathes. “Yes, I will, I-I always will…”

“Perfect,” he says breathlessly as he slides in and out of him with ease. He’s so wet, so pliant, panting as he keeps getting teased by his own apron, with the way it moves, with the way Wilson fucks into him rhythmically, a hand on his ass, keeping him in check. “You’re so perfect for me, baby. Such a perfect wife, so well-behaved, so— so goddamn submissive, like you should be, fuck—”

“James,” he breathes out. He loves serving, he does, he wants Wilson to be happy above all else—

“I wish age hadn’t gotten to you,” Wilson says as he gets closer to orgasm (he can tell with how his thrusts are more sporadic, less rhythmic), “I wish you could get pregnant from this—” 

House comes.

It’s embarrassing, but as soon as Wilson says about getting him pregnant, he’s letting go, eyes rolling back as he climaxes over his cock, spasming, breathing hard, twitching against the counter. He clings onto it for dear life, too blinded by the sheer pleasure that he barely notices Wilson coming himself, filling him up with his seed.

He breathes hard once he recovers, still twitching, shivering, trying to regain his composure in a post-orgasmic haze.

“Oh God,” House mumbles as soon as he comes back to his senses, not quite moving but wishing to flee the scene.

Wilson stays pressed against him, and leans in to kiss his cheek. “Tell me when you’re ready to go to bed, House. You did amazing.”

The lobster is forgotten, but House can deal with that later.


End file.
